The Anticipation Affair
by Mary Catherine Marshall
Summary: The Mother Superior Tales Continue


**Title: The "Anticipation" Affair**

Author: Mary Catherine Marshall Man from UNCLE, mid-1960s

Series: Continuation of the 'Mother Superior Tales'

Rating: PG-13 (language)

Archive: Yes, please!

Date: October 2006

Disclaimer: Napoleon, Illya, Waverly, & UNCLE belong to other folks with a great deal of money. I borrow them for fun and zero profit. Sue if you like, but I'm a poor country preacher...

Emerson Cates Kuryakin slipped her key into the lock and opened the door to her apartment. Dropping her keys in the basket on the entryway credenza, she reset the security system and sorted through the mail. Voices from the living room gave her pause.

"You cheated!"

"Did not!"

"Did too!"

"DID NOT! I rolled doubles!

A petty argument between two game players would not have normally captured her attention, but this argument between these players did. She slipped off her shoes and padded into the living room, quickly stifling a giggle.

Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin, Section 2, Number 2, UNCLE North American Headquarters, late of the KGB and GRU, graduate of the Sorbonne and Cambridge, doctorate in quantum mechanics, was engaged in a formidable battle of wills with a most worthy adversary.

Anya Dimitrieva Kuryakin. Blonde, blue eyed, three-years-old, pre-school student at the Chalmers School, and champion 'Candy Land' player

Emerson smiled at the two well-matched players. Over matched … and perfectly matched. Blond heads just inches apart; nearly identical blue eyes burning with the same fury, locked in mortal combat over the outcome of the game. The sight of her obstinate, mercurial husband stretched out on his belly on the living room floor playing a child's game with such intensity was surprising, amusing, and endearing. _If THRUSH could see this,_ she thought and quickly amended. _If UNCLE could see this!_

In a flash, Anya jumped on her uncle and pummeled him soundly with her small fists while her baby sister chortled and ran to join in the fray. Natasha gleefully smacked Illya on the head, spreading soppy cracker crumbs in his hair.

"Shall I call in an extrication team?" Emerson asked, succumbing to her laughter.

"He cheats, Auntie Em!" Anya charged between blows.

"I know he does, darling," Emerson said, lifting the 20 pound Natasha into her arms. "I've tried to break him, but …" She shrugged her shoulders.

"You are not helping, Emerson," Illya said, his face buried in his arms and his voice muffled. "Get this little minx off of me! PLEASE!"

"Anushka, make Uncle Illyusha say UNCLE."

Anushka stopped pounding and grinned. A rather malevolent grin for one so young. She grabbed a handful of his blond hair and pulled. "Say it, Uncle Illyusha! Say UNCLE!"

Illya dissolved in laughter. "UNCLE, UNCLE, UNCLE! Now get off of me you little razdrazhayuschij rebenok!" (annoying child)

Anushka jumped up and Illya rolled and grabbed her, showering her with kisses. He grinned at Emerson. "I hope she never works for THRUSH. She knows all of my weaknesses."

Emerson fended off Tasha's messy hands. "Not quite all of your weaknesses, Nikala. There are a few she will _never _know about!"

The doorbell rang and Anushka ran to open it. "Anya!" Illya called his voice sharp. "Remember, you must wait for me to help you."

Anya's eyes darkened in anger. "It is Papa, Uncle Illya," she said, her childish voice dismissive. Illya scooped her up.

"You will do as I say," he said, flipping open the door to the small video monitor. "All right. You may open the door."

Anya gave him a look that was both triumphant and denigrating as she opened the door. "Papa!" Tasha slipped out of Emerson's arms and followed her sister into their fathers' embrace.

Dimitri Nickovetch Kuryakin, dark hair falling across his broad, fair forehead, lifted his daughters in his arms. "Moi angely! Moi mladency!" (My angels! My babies!) he cried, kissing the little girls. He looked at Illya, worry in his dark blue eyes. "They were good girls, yes?"

Illya laughed and glanced at Emerson. "Perfectly behaved young ladies, Dimitri."

"Then why have you crumbs in your hair?"

"You will stay for dinner, Dimitri," Illya ordered, quickly closing the door and resetting the alarms.

"Nyet, Illyusha," Dimitri said, shooing away the girls and refusing to surrender his coat. "Do not worry, please. We have food."

"You needn't worry, Dimitri, it's not like I'm cooking," Emerson said, touching Tasha's head as the toddler raced past her. "Mrs. Stein has everything ready to be heated.

"We should not take food from your table," Dimitri said, eyes downcast.

"Ne bud'te glupy!" (Don't be silly!) Emerson said, smiling at Illya. "Mrs. Stein cooks enough for a small army. You will stay. Please."

"Da, Emie, we will stay for dinner," Dimitri said, smiling at his brother.

"Nikala, get the drinks. Anushka can set the table while I fire up the stove."

Illya rolled his eyes and grinned, leaning against the kitchen door watching Emerson stir pots and prod meat.

"What is the phrase, Em? Ah, yes. 'Barefoot and pregnant.'" He managed to duck the potholder aimed at his head.

"Enjoy it while you can, Cossack," she said, leaning into his embrace, relishing the touch of his lips on her neck. "You will pay dearly for this, you know."

"The anticipation is more than I can bear," he whispered, rubbing her slightly rounded belly.

"You have become a shameless hedonist, Kuryakin," she said, turning to kiss him. "Look at you, surrounded by adoring women! You're worse than Napoleon!"

The doorbell rang. Illya grinned as he swatted her ass. "Better add water to the soup, malen'kaya mat'," (little mother) he said, grinning at her. "I will lay odds that it is Napoleon and Charlie."

He was right. Napoleon and Charlie swept in carrying boxes and bags from an obviously successful shopping expedition. Napoleon's cheeks were flushed either from the exertion of carrying all the bundles or from the cold.

"Scotch, my man, and make it quick!" he ordered, dropping the packages.

"Careful, slave! Don't break anything!" Charlie laughed, handing her coat to Emerson. "I have learned a valuable lesson today, Em. Never shop with a man!"

"Which is why I am always surprised when I open my closet door," Illya commented, handing Napoleon his drink. "I never shop yet new clothing appears!"

Napoleon dropped into a wing chair and managed a sip of his drink before Tasha climbed into his lap. "Hello, my little blonde angel."

"Unka 'Pasha," Tasha said, throwing her chubby arms around Napoleon's neck. "Bring me?"

"Tasha! Where are you manners?" Emerson prompted, shaking her head at the baby.

The little girl frowned and then brightened. "Pweeze?"

Everyone laughed at that retort. "Ask Auntie Charlie," Napoleon said, helping the little girl to the floor. "I'm certain there's something in those bags and packages for you … and your sister!"

After dinner, Dimitri rounded up the girls and two shopping bags of new clothes, shoes, and toys and took them home.

Napoleon and Charlie took possession of one couch while Emerson and Illya took the other. Sipping coffee and drinks, the four friends relaxed in the sudden quiet of the apartment.

Charlie slipped off her shoes and demanded a foot rub. "What about me?" Napoleon asked petulantly. "I'm the man that served as your most able porter!"

"Yes, Napasha, and an admirable job you did, too," Charlie said, smiling over the rim of her coffee cup. "But, I'm the one who's pregnant. You owe me!"

Napoleon dutifully rubbed Charlie's feet, pausing for the occasional tickle. "So, my darling doctor, have you told them the latest news?"

Charlie blushed. "I thought you might like to tell them."

"Hey, 'them' is right here," Emerson said, grinning at the pair.

"I've asked Doctor Elizabeth Mercer Charles for her hand in holy matrimony and she has accepted," Napoleon said, winking at Charlie.

"I take it that the secretarial pool and most of the female population of the known world is in deepest mourning," Illya commented dryly.

"Damn well better be," Charlie said, grinning at the man she affectionately called 'Blue-eyes'.

"When?" Emerson asked, settling into Illya's shoulder.

"When are you available?" Napoleon asked, pulling Charlie into his arms.

Emerson grinned at Illya. "Name it."

Charlie leaned against Napoleon's chest. "We were thinking … a simple little wedding, maybe a thousand guests, in June of course, in the Hamptons."

"Your parents will simply adore having their daughter six months pregnant at her wedding," Emerson laughed. "That I've _got _to see!"

Charlie's animated face grew serious. "Actually, we'd like a simple ceremony in our living room. Maybe next weekend."

Illya looked piqued. "Why did we not have such a wedding, Em? "

"'Cause I wanted plenty of witnesses!"

Emerson straightened Illya's ice blue silk tie and smiled at him. "God, you're lucky that I'm working in a few minutes or I'd undo all my hard work," she growled in his ear.

He blushed and she stepped back to admire her husband. The simple black suit was anything but. It had cost a small fortune, but the result was nothing short of stunning. The jacket hung open revealing a cream wool seven button waistcoat over a pale blue Egyptian cotton shirt. The tie with the matching silk pocket handkerchief was the crowning glory, setting off the blue of his eyes. His blond hair seemed to sense the company it was in and behaved nicely.

"Yes indeed, my little Russian. You do clean up well," she said, kissing his cheek. "Help me on with this, will you?" He held her flax robe as she slipped into it, fastening the buttons at the shoulders, and straightening the white stole.

"Impressive," he murmured, kissing her hair.

She smiled. "Costuming is 90 of any job, Nikala," she smoothed the soft fabric over her expanding belly. "Dress for success!"

He chuckled. "You look nothing like the priests at St. Nicholas," he said, wrapping his arms around her. "They have black vestments and long beards."

"I prefer my look, thank you," she said, leaning against him. "You've never seen me work before, have you?"

"Not like this, no," he said, nuzzling her neck.

"Bad boy! Bad, bad, Illya!" she laughed, slipping away. "Come on; let's get this show on the road."

The Solo living room was transformed into a beautiful chapel. A small altar, decorated with candles and cascades of white, silver, and pale pink roses with ivy and baby's breath, stood before the magnificent view of Central Park. Guests were seated in a semi-circle with the aisle leading to the hallway. White and ice blue candles gave the huge room a soft glow.

Emerson took her place and Illya and Napoleon walked side-by-side down the aisle. _Just like always,_ she thought, winking at Illya and squeezing Napoleon's hand. "Nervous?" she whispered.

"Petrified," he answered, grinning. "Luckily, I've got my partner to back me up."

Illya grimaced. "Sorry, Napoleon. If you fail to complete this mission, you are on your own. Bigamy is not something I care to attempt. Not with these two, any way."

The string quartet began Pachelbel's 'Canon in D' as the maid of honor, Charlie's younger sister, Dianna, walked slowly down the aisle. Next came Anushka and Tasha, relishing every moment of being allowed to scatter rose petals for Auntie Charlie.

Emerson invited the gathering to stand and the etched glass doors to the hallway opened. Charlie entered on the arm of her father, who beamed at his daughter and arched an eyebrow at his soon-to-be son-in-law.

At the altar, Dr. Mercer Charles kissed his daughter and shook hands with Napoleon. The two heads met in a whispered exchange. Emerson grinned as Napoleon colored slightly. "Absolutely, sir," he said. "You have my word." Dr. Charles smiled, nodded, and returned to his wife.

Charlie, wearing an ice blue raw silk suit and carrying a huge bouquet of camellias, smiled at Napoleon who took her hand and kissed it. He leaned down and whispered, "I love you."

Emerson chuckled. "Charlie, please repeat after me … "

"I, Elizabeth Mercer Charles, take thee, Napoleon Antony Solo, to be my wedded husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto I pledge thee my faith."

"Napoleon?" Emerson asked, her eyes met Illya's, surprised to find unshed tears.

"I, Napoleon Antony Solo, take thee, Elizabeth Mercer Charles, to be my wedded wife, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto I pledge thee my faith."

Lina Waverly was absolutely certain that a soul deep sigh was given up by every unmarried woman in the room. She held her husband's hand and smiled at the couple.

"The vows which Napoleon and Charlie exchanged were offered in our hearing. But words are fleeting, and the sound of them is soon gone. The wedding ring becomes an enduing symbol of the covenant which Charlie and Napoleon have made this day." Emerson smiled at Illya who dutifully deposited two plain gold bands in her palm. She blessed the rings and offered one to Napoleon. "A symbol of your love and fidelity for your bride, Napasha."

Napoleon took the ring in his trembling fingers and said, "Charlie, as a symbol of my love for you and my commitment to you throughout our lives, I give you this ring, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen." He kissed the ring, slipped in carefully onto her finger, and held Charlie's hand to his heart.

"Charlie?" Emerson asked, whisking a tear from the corner of her eye.

"Napasha, as a symbol of my love for you and my commitment to you throughout our lives, I give you this ring, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen." She pressed his fingers to her lips.

Anushka and Tasha clapped their hands and yelled, "Yeah!"

_Patterns,_ Emerson thought, glancing at the desk clock, _Nikala loves patterns, plans, methods, and outcomes. He should be delirious with joy._

Their life had settled into a not unpleasant pattern over the past few months. She had removed herself from the Section 2 active duty roster before Waverly had to broach the subject, an act Napoleon deeply appreciated. She made all of her OB-GYN appointments without fail, took her horse pill vitamins daily, smoked a little less, and swore off vodka martinis before 6 p.m.

At Charlie's urging she tried to spend less than 10 hours a day at the office and took naps when the day ran longer, stopped running the track and switched to walking, and could no longer be accused of trying to kill people in hand-to-hand practice.

After the incident with Agent Holly, Illya insisted that at least one Section 5 guard be posted in the hall outside her office. She thought it was overkill, but acquiesced, grateful that he hadn't insisted on a bodyguard.

Emerson refused to give up driving her fire engine red Corvette even though it was becoming more and more difficult to get in and out of the low slung car. She loved the energy of it, the way it made her feel, and the looks she got. "It takes a supremely secure pregnant woman to drive a 'Vette," she said to Illya after one of his lectures.

"You need not prove your confidence to me, Em," he said, frown firmly in place. "What if you have an accident? How will you escape?"

"You better worry about the poor bastard that hits my car!" she answered, kissing his forehead. "I'm an excellent driver … unlike others I might name."

Illya seemed reasonably placated, until the mugging.

Emerson had a craving for chocolate ice cream and made a run to the corner market when she was accosted by a young man just a few yards from her building.

"Emerson Cates Kuryakin, fancy meeting you here!" he growled, pushing her against the building, his face inches from hers.

"Fuck off ass hole!" she shouted, her knee finding its target. The man fell to his knees, sputtering for air.

She made for the doors as two bullets pinged against the façade, showering her with marble chips.

Marvin Pederson, the doorman, pulled her into the lobby and behind a marble column. He holstered his gun and opened his communicator as Bud Nordyke brushed past him, UNCLE Special in hand.

"Open Channel D. Priority. Shots fired. 427 Central Park West. Repeat 427 Central Park West," Marvin said, keeping watch over Emerson.

Nordyke darted the assailant, dropping him to the pavement. "Open Channel D. Priority," Bud said, moving toward the moaning assailant. "Target secured. Assailant down. Request back up. 427 Central Park West."

"Mr. Pederson, report!" Alexander Waverly commanded.

"Sir, Agent Cates was accosted on the street. The attacker fired two shots. She is unharmed. Nordyke darted the assailant and has him in custody."

"Do you require medical assistance for Agent Cates?"

"I am fine, Alexander," Emerson said, allowing Marvin to help her to her feet.

"A contingent of Section 3 agents should be arriving in less than 3 minutes, Mr. Pederson," Waverly said. "In the meantime, hold Agent Cates in a safe location."

"Acknowledged, sir. Pederson, out."

"Are you all right, Miss Cates?" Marvin asked, turning his attention to her. "Got a little close there."

"I'm fine, Marvin," she said, brushing marble chips from her hair and jacket. She silently cursed her shaking hands. Smiling at Marvin's concerned face she said, "Really, I'm fine. Thank you. Damn! Where's my ice cream?"

Marvin blushed and led Emerson to a sofa near the elevators, well out of the way of the door and lobby entrance. "You just set tight, Miss Cates. I know the Section 3 guys will want to talk to you. And, um, I'll find your ice cream and get you some coffee."

Emerson closed her eyes and focused on breathing. She hated to admit it, but the incident had frightened her. And, even more, she hated to admit that she hadn't seen it coming.

_Get yourself knocked-up, Cates, and all your brain cells go to the kid,_ she thought, chuckling in spite of the situation.

"You look like shit," Napoleon said, offering the promised cup of coffee.

Emerson offered a rueful grin. "There's that Solo charm I keep hearing about. And, where's my ice cream?"

"Sorry," he said, sitting next to her. "No ice cream. You look … a little shaken. Everything okay?"

"One more time, with feeling … _I am fine_!"

"That's why your hands are shaking," he said, taking the cup. "I want you checked out in medical." He glanced at her. "You've got blood on your cheek, your jacket is torn, and so is you trouser leg."

She sighed, but her fight wasn't gone just yet. She fixed Napoleon with a Russian-worthy glare. "I am, at present, not active in Section 2. I don't believe that you have the authority to order me to do anything."

"Then I shall have to exercise my authority." The voice was calm and clear but the accent was raging.

"Nikala, I'm fine, really," she said, refusing to look at him. "Just a little shaken and a lot pissed. I'd like to go home. And I want my goddamn ice cream!"

He took her arm and pulled her into an embrace. "Medical first. I will take you," he whispered. She stiffened in his arms. "Please, Em. Do it for me."

Bud hauled the disoriented, hand cuffed young man through the lobby. The two building agents disappeared into the office and the door clicked behind them, locked and secured.

Illya led her through the lobby and onto the street. "What's with the 3rd Army?" Emerson asked, watching Section 3 agents comb the street.

"Precaution," Illya answered, pushing her into the car. Napoleon jumped into the backseat.

"Over kill, _again_," Emerson said, tucking herself into the corner of the backseat. She shrugged and tried to look nonchalant. "Look, some guy accosted me on the street. I nailed his ass. End of excitement." Illya glared at her.

Napoleon laughed. "Muggers snatch purses, Emerson, they don't use guns."

"Okay, it was a mugging gone bad," Emerson said. "Maybe he just wanted my ice cream." She offered a weak smile.

Illya turned to Emerson, his blue eyes flashing with anger and, she thought, a little fear. "This was no common mugging and you know it. He accosted you by name, Emerson. He _fired_ at you."

"I know. I was there," Emerson said, dropping her eyes.

Illya brushed her cheek with his fingertips. "He could have killed you … both of you."

"So now what?" she asked as they pulled into the underground parking garage at headquarters. "Tracking devices? Bodyguards? House arrest?"

Illya chuckled, opening the door for her. "That idea has possibilities. Napoleon?"

The senior agent nodded. "I think she's hit upon the perfect solution!"

Alexander Waverly paced his office. The one constant worry that had dogged him since his capitulation regarding the unwritten 'rule' about Section 2 agents marrying had come to life.

A phone call to his wife, Lina, had given him some comfort and bolstered his conclusion that security for the women married to his two top agents must be increased.

"Tell me, Lina, how shall I tell Emerson, not to mention Dr. Charles, that they will have constant protection? And … keep my head attached to my body, of course," he had asked, praying that his wife of more than 40 years would have an answer.

Lina smiled at his obvious discomfort. "Perhaps, mon ami, I can help you with this difficult task."

His eyes brightened. "I will appreciate any assistance, Lina!"

"I shall invite them to luncheon, tomorrow. You are able to wait that long before your conversation, yes?" she asked, smiling at her cleverness.

"Absolutely. Emerson is in medical being evaluated and I have not yet received the preliminary report from the security team." Waverly smiled. "You are very clever, my dear."

"Of course I am, darling," Lina said, her French accent dancing in his ear. "That is why you married me."

Lina Waverly led her guests to the solarium. "I think this is my favorite room in the whole of the house. Alexander and I often take our breakfast here."

Boston ferns, palms, and potted plants decorated the sun-drenched room. The menu began with a tossed green salad followed by boneless breast of chicken in a white wine sauce over al dente wild rice and fresh baby peas with pearl onions. A delicate white wine complimented the food.

Lina asked about married life, commiserated on the trials of pregnancy, and of being married to men with such irregular schedules. She spoke in vague terms of her own marriage and of the challenge of raising children in the shadow of UNCLE.

Over dessert of chocolate éclairs, she directed the conversation to the problem at hand. "I understand that you were involved in a little altercation yesterday, Emie."

Emerson glanced at Charlie. "Just a mugging, Auntie Lina. Completely blown out of proportion."

"Em took care of things in her usual understated style," Charlie said, grinning at her friend.

Lina nodded. "No less than I would have expected. Let's take our coffee in the living room. The chairs are a good deal more comfortable."

The women settled in, Emerson kicking off her shoes and folding her legs beneath her. "I take it, Auntie that this luncheon is about more than just 'girl talk?'"

Lina chuckled. "Yes and no, my dear," she said, pouring coffee. "Alexander is quite worried about this, you know."

Charlie nodded. "So am I," she said. Emerson shrugged.

Lina ignored Emerson and relaxed into her chair. "Allow me to tell you a story, not precisely akin to yours, but I am certain that you will draw your own conclusions."

Emerson frowned. "Is there a moral to this tale, Lina, or is it simply an attempt to scare the wits out of both of us?"

"Do not be impertinent, Emerson," Lina said, matching Emerson's frown.

Emerson examined the bottom of her coffee cup. "My apologies, Auntie."

Lina patted her hand. "Alexander and I married in England during the war and continued our work with the OSS and the Underground." Her dark eyes took in the faces of the two young women. "It was an extraordinarily tenuous time, to say the least.

"At the end of the war we moved to the States where we worked at forming a new agency, one that would operate outside the constraints of national borders and the narrow confines of national interests, real and imagined." Her eyes misted and her voice grew soft. "Once UNCLE was established, I stayed in the field while Alexander devoted himself almost entirely to expanding and strengthening the network of member nations."

Emerson glanced at Charlie, who seemed completely enthralled with the story. "Somewhere in there you met my mother," Emerson said, sipping her coffee.

"Yes, Emie," she said, pouring more coffee. "Your mother and I met at university while I was undercover. I lived away from Alexander for nearly two years with your mother as my roommate. Of course, I did return 'home' for proper visits." She smiled at the thought. "Poor dear, she never realized that I was a married woman the whole time we were sorority sisters!"

Charlie laughed. "I can't imagine Napoleon or Illya tolerating that kind of 'long distance' marriage, although we're expected to put up with pretty much anything tossed our way."

"Both of you live rather difficult lives and quite graciously, I might add," Lina said, smiling at the two young women and remembering herself at their ages.

"Perhaps your mother told you of the event that caused the creation of the unwritten 'rule' regarding Section 2 agents, Emie."

"Not that I recall, but I wasn't much for paying attention to details," Emerson said, smiling at her old friend.

"Not much has changed, Em," Charlie noted.

"No, it hasn't, has it?" Lina said. "Emie is still unruly and obstinate, in an unusually charming way." Lina's voice softened and she leaned forward.

"I was investigating a professor working in the chemistry department, a man we knew to be a former Nazi. I transferred to Mount Holyoke and began work as an assistant in his lab. As we suspected, he was continuing his work on the development of a nerve gas that would sicken and kill millions. I followed his progress carefully, reporting to Alexander as often as necessary."

"Not much has changed, Auntie," Emerson said, rising from the couch and stretching. "We're still dealing with mad professors and their schemes."

Lina nodded. "Over the 18 months I worked in his lab I had managed to copy most of his research notes and send them to headquarters. Then I decided that he was very close to moving from experiments on mice and dogs to experimenting on humans. I had no idea how he would manage it and I didn't need to know. I contacted Alexander with the day and time and prepared to finish my assignment.

She paused, lost in the memory of that night. "At about 2 a.m., I took the rest of his notes and wired the lab with timed high-powered explosives. I was clear of the building on the loading dock when I literally ran into two other lab assistants. I slipped my knapsack into a trash bin and warned them of a gas leak in the lab. I urged them to escape, but one of the men grabbed me while the other pressed a cloth soaked with chloroform over my face. I had no way to contact Alexander and no chance of escape."

"Jesus, Auntie!"

"I was taken to an abandoned building and … " she smiled. "I survived the Gestapo, you know, and these men were rank amateurs compared to them." She traced a faint scar on her right forearm and glanced at the two young women. "A memento of the occasion, as they say."

Emerson recognized the pain in her eyes. "Please, Auntie, I think we catch your drift. It isn't necessary …"

"Oh, but it _is_ necessary, Emerson," Lina said, rising and moving to the fireplace, turning her back to her guests. "THRUSH had contacted the professor regarding the nerve gas and ran a check on his lab staff. I was identified as an agent and my brilliant plan turned on me. Dr. Otto Heulshoff was not a stupid man, but he did suffer from hubris. He could not believe that I had accomplished anything against him. My explosives destroyed his lab as they drove away with me in the back of a panel truck.

"Heulshoff panicked. With his lab in ruins and believing that his research had been destroyed, he was convinced that THRUSH would no longer be interested in him. It would take too long to reconstruct his research. So, he contacted Alexander saying that I would be returned, unharmed, in exchange for more than a million dollars and the freedom to disappear."

Emerson leaned against the doorjamb, tears stinging her eyes. "Auntie …"

"No, Emerson," the older woman said, turning to face her goddaughter. "Of course, Alexander refused. UNCLE never negotiates." Her eyes darkened, shining with tears. "I was gang raped and the act was filmed and sent to Alexander."

Emerson joined Charlie on the couch. "Oh, Mrs. Waverly!" Charlie said, squeezing Emerson's hand.

"Two days later a series of 'coincidences' … you know Alexander doesn't believe in such things … led UNCLE to my location. An assault team stormed the building and took me out. Heulshoff died at Alexander's hand. The research notes were recovered. In a very real sense, the assignment was a success."

"So, the 'rule' was created to keep this from happening again?" Charlie asked, brushing tears from her face.

"The five hemispheric directors met and decided that allowing Section 2 agents to establish any long-term relationships outside of their partnerships would be forbidden. Such relationships were deemed a priority threat to the Command and to the safety and well-being of agents, not to mention their loved ones. Any Section 2 agent choosing to marry or be involved in a long-term relationship would be removed from active field service."

"And I managed to dismantle the 'rule'," Emerson said, dropping her head in her hands. "Good going, Emerson."

"Not without some assistance, my dear," Lina said, smiling. "I helped Alexander come to the conclusion that times had changed and that it was to UNCLE's advantage to have its Section 2 agents grounded in stable relationships."

Charlie glanced at her friend. "The two of us are already chin deep in this and treading water. It's too late to go back now."

"So it is, dear girl," Lina said, laying her hand over Charlie's. "Impossible in fact." She turned her attention to Emerson. "You understand changes must be made. "

"I'm a trained Section 2 agent, Auntie and, as with all UNCLE staff, Charlie knows how to use a gun. We're not two babes in the woods here," Emerson countered.

"No, you are certainly not 'babes in the woods,' Emerson. You haven't been that in many, many years. But, you are at risk … deadly risk. This event brings things into stark focus. That, you must agree, leaves the men you love in a precarious position. An untenable position."

"She's right, Em," Charlie said, resting her hand on Emerson's shoulder.

"You are like an irresistible temptation, an infallible path into the very heart of the Command. Capturing or killing either of you, not to mention your children, would damage the effectiveness of UNCLE … perhaps destroy it from the inside out."

"You give us way too much credit, Auntie," Emerson said, raising her head and sitting up straight. "We both knew the risks going in and we signed on anyway. I'm not willing to live like a prisoner just to keep the bad guys at bay."

"Speak for yourself, Em," Charlie said, her face reflecting the depth of her concern. "Allowing ourselves to be targets when we could take precautions is stupid! You know as well as I do that Napasha and Illya will risk everything to protect us. I know we joke about having them change careers, but this different."

"Charlie, it's manageable," Emerson said, shifting away from her friend.

"No, goddamn it! I'm not willing to risk their lives … or ours … for your ego. Especially now," she touched her belly and stared at Emerson accusingly.

"I recovered," Lina, said, her eyes focused in the middle distance. "Alexander helped me piece my life … our lives … back together." She paused, locking her gaze on Emerson. "But not before I miscarried our first child."

The door to his office opened quietly admitting the two young women in question. The older man squared his shoulders and reached for his favorite pipe. Lina had reported their conversation and that she expected their full cooperation, but he knew Emerson all too well.

"Please be seated," he said, offering a rare but charming smile.

Emerson and Charlie shared a glance that did nothing to lessen his sense of discomfort. If anything, that brief exchange caused a considerable increase.

"Is this a business or professional conversation?" Emerson asked, grinning as she took a seat at the large round table. Charlie sighed.

Waverly gave her a quizzical look, tamping tobacco into the bowl of his Meerschaum pipe. "Odd question, that."

"Not at all," Emerson replied, as Charlie took the chair nearest hers. "If this is business then you're Mr. Waverly and I'm Agent Cates. If it's personal then I'm Emie and you're Alexander … or, Uncle Alex."

Waverly frowned. _Such impertinence! _He fumed silently, setting a match to his pipe. Emerson smiled wickedly, reminding him of a cat playing with a mouse. He did not care for the analogy. "Then, Agent Cates, this is business."

"I'm sure that Auntie has reported our conversation to you," she said, appropriating one of his matches to light her cigarette. "What do you want?"

"I want to do everything in my power to assure your safety."

Charlie and Emerson shared a secretive smile. "Name it, Mr. Waverly," Emerson said, a chuckle escaping her control.

Alexander Waverly dropped his pipe.

Illya was hard at work on a stack of reports. Napoleon was hard at work watching Illya hard at work.

"Napoleon," Illya said, squinting at the triplicate report form in his typewriter, "would you please stop staring at me?"

"I'm not staring at you, partner," Napoleon said, bouncing a ball of paper off Illya's temple. "I'm watching the Master at work."

Illya lobbed his own missile. "The Master would appreciate a little assistance from the acolyte."

"Holy shit! I haven't been called an acolyte since I was an altar boy at Blessed Holy Miseries!" He bounced out of his chair. "Come on, IK, you know I'm no good at report writing. I'll just screw it up and you'll have to redo it, so why not save us both the frustration?" Napoleon grinned at the look of frustration on his friends face. "And, put on your glasses. You'll get wrinkles."

"Your depth of concern is impressive," Illya said, pounding furiously on the typewriter keys. "And, there is no Blessed Holy Miseries."

"You didn't know Sister Mary Sadist and her minions," he chuckled, remembering the ruler wielding nuns.

The office door slid open interrupting the conversation. A young courier, looking more than a little harried, entered.

"Tough day, Tim?" Napoleon asked, taking the offered envelope.

"Unreal," Tim answered, adding a deep sigh. "I've got one of these for Mr. Kuryakin, too."

Illya took his envelope, frowned, and dropped it on the stack of reports. "More work!"

Tim grinned and slipped out the door.

"Not like you, Commie Boy, to complain about doing work that benefits the unwashed masses," Napoleon said, using his letter opener to slit the envelope. His eyes grew wide. "Better read it, IK."

Illya sighed dramatically, reached for the envelope, and sliced it neatly open with his pen knife. He read the missive and gave Napoleon a quizzical look.

"What's yours say?" Napoleon asked.

"Tonight. 7 p.m. '21'. Black tie," Illya read, his brow furrowing. "Yours?"

"Same. And, no signature."

"Angelique?"

"Too subtle," Napoleon said, his mind instantly wandering to the well-stacked blonde THRUSH agent. "Anyway, she'd never invite you."

"Um. True enough," Illya replied. "Serena!"

"Don't think so," Napoleon said, waiving the letter in the air. "Wait!" He moved the paper to his nose and sniffed. "Channel No. 5."

"That is most of the women of your acquaintance, Napoleon."

"Ok, smart Russian, sniff yours."

Illya rolled his eyes, but followed directions. He grinned. "Emerson."

"We've been had, tovarisch!"

"Gentlemen," Waverly said, waiving the two young agents to their respective chairs. "Be seated."

Napoleon shot Illya a look. 'What the hell's going on?' was Illya's interpretation. Napoleon's answer was a microscopic shrug.

Waverly absently shifted a stack of files, ignoring his two top agents. "You should both be made aware that I met with Agent Cates and Dr. Charles this morning."

Eyebrows, blond, and raven, shot up in surprise. Waverly harrumphed in reply.

"Do not be so amazed, gentlemen," he said, taking his chair. "I am capable of commanding my agents and section chiefs."

"Yes, sir," came the amused replies.

"This information will be of great interest to both of you," Waverly said. "The man who accosted Agent Cates has been identified. He has a rather long but unimpressive criminal record."

The room darkened and the view screen glowed. "This is Michael Wayne Jones, known to the New York Police Department as Wayne Michael Smith," Waverly said, waiving his pipe at the screen.

"Imaginative sort," Illya said. "Will he be turned over to authorities?"

"No, Mr. Kuryakin," Waverly said, the light returning. "It seems that Mr. Jones/Mr. Smith is a good deal more imaginative in rather nefarious ways. He is also a low-level THRUSH operative with delusions of grandeur."

Illya blanched dead white.

"Quite, Mr. Kuryakin," Waverly said, noting the pallor. "The mugging may have been an attempt by an incompetent THRUSH underling to improve his standing with his superiors."

"'May have', sir?" Illya asked, growing even paler.

"May have, Mr. Kuryakin," Waverly said, reaching for his humidor. "In light of this situation we have intercepted several high level THRUSH communiqués disavowing any knowledge or approval of Mr. Jones's actions. In response, I have issued communiqués to all offices of UNCLE that extreme prejudice is ordered in any suspected attempts on the families of UNCLE personnel."

The room fell silent as the three men considered the gravity of the situation.

"Section 5 is reviewing security plans for your apartment building," Waverly said, glancing at the file open before him. "Security measures at your domicile will increase markedly."

"We appreciate that, sir," Napoleon said, grateful that a little color was returning to Illya's face.

"Yes, sir," Illya said, rising from his chair and pacing the room. "In the meantime, how do you propose to protect Emerson and Charlie? Our next assignment will leave them vulnerable."

"Correct, Mr. Kuryakin," Waverly nodded, sending two files around the table. "Your briefing folders, gentlemen. Beirut."

Illya stopped pacing and turned to face his boss. "I respectfully decline the assignment, sir."

Napoleon's neck nearly snapped as he turned to face his partner.

"No need, Mr. Kuryakin," Waverly said, nodding at the young blond agent. "Arrangements have been made."

"Arrangements?" Napoleon asked.

"Yes, gentlemen. Dr. Charles and Agent Cates will reside at headquarters while the two of you are away."

"They agreed, sir?" Napoleon asked, hoping that his face didn't register how stunned he felt.

"Yes, Mr. Solo. I remind you that I am Chief of this facility." Waverly noted the look of unbridled awe on their faces. "I employed my most formidable secret weapon." He paused taking in the confusion that had replaced awe. "Mrs. Waverly, of course."

'21' was awash in immaculately dressed men, women beyond beautiful, a king's ransom in jewels, and the finest food and drink on the planet.

Charlie and Emerson, escorted by an UNCLE agent, having been delivered in an UNCLE limo driven by an UNCLE agent, were greeted by Marcel, the matre' de.

"Ah, Madam Solo, Madam Kuryakin," he said, bowing slightly. "I have reserved your favorite table, as you asked. The wine is chilling and Chef is quite busy on your behalf."

Emerson smiled at the small man as he led them to the table tucked away in a back corner. "You excel as always, Marcel. Merci'!"

"Mais évidemment!" (But of course!) Marcel replied, holding Charlie's chair. "De belles femmes révèlent mon meilleur, oui?" (Beautiful women bring out my best, yes?)

"M. Solo et M. Kuryakin devraient être ici bientôt," (Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin should be here shortly) Emerson said, relaxing against the soft leather of the semi-circular booth.

"Je les accompagnerai personnellement," (I will escort them personally), Marcel said, summoning a waiter. "Avec votre permission, Madame Kuryakin," (With your permission, Madame Kuryakin), Marcel smiled. Emerson nodded.

"L'ecossais et la soude sur les roches et un martini de vodka, très froid, tremblé," (Scotch on the rocks and a vodka martini, very cold, shaken) Marcel ordered. The waiter nodded and evaporated. "Les dames, excusez-moi, s'il vous plaît" (Ladies, excuse me, please), and Marcel clicked his heels and disappeared into the crowd.

"This place never ceases to amaze me," Charlie said, sipping her drink as her eyes scanned the crowd. "Grandma's old saying comes to mind, "More money than sense."

Emerson chuckled. "Don't forget; we're sitting here, too."

Charlie rolled her eyes and grinned. "Between the two of us, we've got enough sense for the whole room, and you've got more than enough money."

"It is nice, being a woman of independent means," Emerson said, sipping her martini. "Money many not build happiness, but it sure as hell helps with construction."

Charlie laughed. "I don't know how you've managed to get Blue-Eyes to enjoy the bourgeois life."

"Oh, he's still a socialist at heart," Emerson said, "conflicted and chafing at every expenditure that he thinks is indulgent. Which is pretty much everything … except food."

Charlie glanced up. "Show time!"

Napoleon led the way with Illya, as usual, a step or two behind and to the right. "'Mon chéri,' (My darling) he said, kissing Charlie's hand.

'Vozl'ublennyj,' (Beloved.) Illya said, a gentle smile gracing his face as he kissed Emerson's cheek.

"Two handsome, well-dressed, well-spoken men," Emerson said, sharing a smile with Charlie. "What have you done with Napoleon and Illya?"

Illya and Napoleon slipped into the booth, sharing a bemused frown. "Keep your voice down! We date only married women," Illya said, taking Emerson's hand. "Pregnant married women. It is the spy code of conduct."

The waiter delivered a scotch neat for Napoleon and a double vodka, frozen, for Illya. "Best damn staff on the planet," Napoleon said, brushing Charlie's thigh with his hand.

"The two of you had a meeting this morning?" Illya asked, toying with his glass.

Emerson smiled. "A very productive meeting, Nikala."

"What gives?" Napoleon asked Charlie as he glanced suspiciously at Emerson. "It's not like either of you to capitulate."

"Oh, we didn't capitulate, Napasha," Charlie said, leaning against her husband. "We, um, we came to a meeting of the minds."

"Obfuscation," Illya observed, frowning into his drink. "I would suggest that Mr. Waverly prevailed."

Emerson grinned. "His argument was very persuasive, but ours even more so."

Napoleon grinned. "I think we'd both like to hear your persuasive argument."

"It isn't that we're thrilled with the arrangement," Charlie said. "It was quite a difficult decision."

"But, we decided that the underlying issue is much more important to both of us," Emerson finished, sipping her drink.

"Underlying issue?" Napoleon asked, trying to read the inscrutable look on Charlie's face.

"The two of you," she answered, squeezing his hand.

"Yes," Emerson said, brushing Illya's cheek with a kiss. "This is a small thing really."

"Who are you and what have you done with our wives?" Illya asked.

At first Dr. Charles spent a little more time than usual in medical, treating patients, reviewing files, and the like. Emerson added cases to her calendar and to the calendars of her staff. The morning of Day 1, Week 2 resulted in several priority phone calls to Waverly's office.

"Alex!" Dr. William Fortune, chief of surgery, snapped, "you've got to do something with Charlie … um, Dr. Charles."

"I haven't the slightest idea what you mean, Bill," Waverly said, half listening to the surgeon while he reviewed the evening report from Communications.

"She's running everybody mad, Alex. Temper, language, an unabashed hellion," Fortune said. "Much more of this and you'll be replacing your entire medical staff."

Waverly pushed back from the table and walked to the windows. "Put Dr. Charles on, please."

He heard a door open, followed by a brief, heated discussion, and Charlie came on.. "Yes, Mr. Waverly?" Her voice sounded perfectly calm and reasonable.

"Yes, um, Dr. Charles," Waverly said, suddenly at a loss for words. "I am led to believe that there's something of a turmoil in medical. Is that true?"

"I will not tolerate incompetence," Charlie said, her voice like steel.

"Nor would I countenance such behavior from you," Waverly said, tapping his cold pipe on the table. Silence. "Dr. Charles?"

She waived Fortune out the door. "I'm sorry, sir. My staff is unhappy with my presence, it seems," she said, slumping in her desk chair.

"Are you able to shed any light on this development?" He glanced up as his office door opened and Emerson entered.

"I can," Emerson said, standing at his shoulder.

"My apologies, Dr. Charles, I've been interrupted. Emerson, please be seated."

"May I join you, sir?" Charlie asked, feeling suddenly claustrophobic.

Waverly's eyebrows shot up. "By all means, Dr. Charles. By all means."

"Cabin fever," Emerson said, kicking off her shoes and lighting a cigarette. "We're both going stir crazy and taking everybody else with us."

Waverly frowned. "The two of you have been here barely one week, Emerson! How can you possibly be stir crazed?"

"Stir crazy, sir," she amended. "We're not used to being cooped up like this. After a demanding 8 or 12 hours around the gristmill, we're used to going home. Sometimes with our mates in tow. Out to dinner, the theater, a movie … that sort of thing." She frowned at his obvious lack of understanding. "If you'd blow this joint once in a while, Uncle Alex, you'd know what I mean."

He chuckled at the brash young woman. "I do 'blow this joint' as you say, on occasion. And, I am fully versed in leisure activities, I'll have you know."

The door opened and Charlie buzzed in, her hair in a mess and evidence of recently shed tears still on her cheeks. "Em, we've got to escape!"

Emerson hitched a thumb at Charlie. "See what I mean, Uncle Alex?"

"I've also received calls from your staff, Emerson. They mirror the complaints I've received from medical," Waverly said, frowning at the view of the East River. "Apparently, you two have run roughshod over them and they are near mutiny."

"This was _your_ idea, Uncle Alex, keeping us here," she said, grinning at Charlie. "What's your plan?"

"Plan," Alexander Waverly muttered. "Yes, my dear. A plan!"

Illya hunkered down as another RPG screamed overhead. "Plan, Napoleon!" he shouted. "What is your plan?"

"It's your day to plan, tovarisch," Napoleon shouted, taking aim at the bandit in possession of the assault weapon and firing several rounds. He ducked back behind their jeep that rested precariously on its side against some rocks. "I distinctly remember being responsible for planning yesterday."

Illya glared at his partner. "If I am to function as Number 1, Section 2, then I expect an increase in my pay allotment."

Napoleon chuckled. "If this keeps up we'll both be getting our pay allotments posthumously." He crouched and pressed his field glasses to his eyes. "One crazed nut case to the left, about 50 yards."

"I have never seen a nut case that was not crazed," Illya observed, quickly adapting his UNCLE P-38 Special to a high-powered rifle. "Cover me."

Napoleon lay down covering fire as Illya dashed for an outcropping of rocks about 25 feet from their jeep. Incoming fire pinged off the jeep and traced Illya's path. Napoleon was sure that at least one of the shots grazed his partner.

The Russian located the shooter and signaled to Napoleon who lobbed an arc of smoke grenades forward of his position. As the first grenade dropped, Illya squeezed off his shot. He smiled, greeted with the scream of a now dead shooter. He scurried back to Napoleon.

"That alone should rate a bonus," Illya said, wiping sweat and blood from his eyes. "After all, I am an expectant father."

"You're going to play this for it's worth, aren't you?" Napoleon said, chuckling at his partner. His UNCLE special took down several insurgents attempting to make their escape. "You okay?"

"I am fine," the blond replied, absently rubbing his right lower leg. His hand came back bloodied.

"Good," Napoleon said, frowning at his partner. "I'd hate like hell to think that you took a round."

"You hate like hell that you might have to explain my injuries to Emerson," Illya said, pulling a sweat soaked, filthy rag from his neck and tying it around the wound. He returned his attention to the highlands and took down the insurgent stupid enough to take up the RPG launcher. "I believe that it is time to depart."

"Good thinking, IK," Napoleon said, taking a quick scan of the barren hillside. "Looks like our little buddies have decided to call it a day."

Illya and Napoleon grabbed the side of the jeep and righted it. "I'll drive," Napoleon said, watching Illya hobble to the passenger side. "You're bad enough behind the wheel when you're in full command of your faculties; I'm not game for you to drive wounded."

Illya grimaced as he ripped open his pant leg to the knee. "I have driven wounded before and I do not remember any complaints." He loosened the makeshift bandage and wiped at the pulsing blood. Napoleon handed him the first aid kit.

"I never complain when I'm unconscious," the senior agent said, putting the abused jeep into gear.

Illya poured iodine over the wound, wincing at the burn, and then slapped a stack of 4 x 4 sponges over the wound and wrapped cling gauze around his calf to keep them in place. The sponges soon soaked through.

"Looks like you managed to hit something substantial," Napoleon observed, glancing at the bloodied dressings.

"It is nothing," Illya said, looking a little more pale than usual.

"Right," Napoleon said, flying down the pothole-encrusted road on his way to Beirut headquarters. "You're looking a little white. I'll get you to medical ASAP."

"I would hate to die in a traffic accident," Illya said, his voice growing faint as his head slumped against the seat and landed on Napoleon's shoulder.

"O ye of little faith," Solo said, taking a quick glance at Illya, relieved to see that he was still breathing.

"Open Channel D, overseas relay, scramble, priority!" Napoleon ordered as he paced outside UNCLE Beirut headquarters medical section.

"Yes, Mr. Solo," Waverly's untroubled voice answered.

"Mr. Kuryakin is in medical, sir. He took a round this afternoon in a fire fight."

"I take it the assignment was successful?"

_The old bastard,_ Napoleon thought, frowning at the communicator. _I could have told him that Illya was in a body bag and that I was being measured for one and he'd still want to know about the assignment!_

"Mr. Solo? The assignment?" Waverly's cool voice had turned demanding.

"Yes, sir. The assignment is a success." Napoleon made no effort to keep the exasperation from his voice.

Waverly's face softened. _They are too close to one another,_ he thought. _Now things are even more complicated. Wives, babies! _He shook his head.

"Very good, Mr. Solo," Waverly said, moving files around on his desk. "Get Mr. Kuryakin cleaned up and return to New York as soon as possible. Waverly, out."

"Wait, sir!" Napoleon nearly shouted. "May I speak to Emerson, please?"

"What? Oh, sorry, Mr. Solo. Neither Miss Cates or Dr. Charles are on the premises."

"I thought … I thought you had them at headquarters," Napoleon stammered.

"Quite so, Mr. Solo," Waverly responded absentmindedly, fiddling with his cold pipe. "Unfortunately, it was necessary to quell mutinies in both medical and Section Seven. So, I shipped them both to a safe location."

"May I ask where, sir? Mr. Kuryakin will ask, you know."

"Survival School, Mr. Solo."

Charlie paced the front of the lab, tapping a wooden pointer against her leg like a swagger stick. The room was filled with eager, young, fresh-faced recruits hanging on her every word.

In the last week she had managed to make most of them puke, showing them graphic color slides of gunshot wounds to the chest, abdomen, and extremities. Head wounds took first place for number of instantly retching recruits. Today they were practicing projectile extrication, emergency suturing, IV's, and the basics of field first aid. She smiled at Emerson who was moving from station to station monitoring the recruits' progress. That morning at breakfast, the two young women had lamented the fact that they were prohibited from inflicting wounds that would really require extrication and suturing.

"I don't know," Emerson had said, sipping her coffee, "I'd be happy to put a load of buckshot in David Williams's ass. That's one big mouthed kid."

"Don't tell me that he has _attitude_, Em?" Charlie laughed. "Of course, if anybody could identify attitude at a thousand yards, it would be you."

"He's a smart assed little shit. Thinks he's god's gift and all that. I just hope he get posted to New York," she said, taking a draw on her cigarette, a maniacal grin on her face. "I'll make sure he's assigned to me!"

Charlie patted her belly and glanced at Emerson's. "Planning on returning to the field, uh?"

Emerson frowned. "Now that you mention it … yes."

"I'd like to be there when you tell the Old Man and Illya," Charlie grinned. "Off to the side, maybe behind a bullet proof glass, or something."

Emerson grinned. "Don't think they'll go for it, uh?"

"Neither do you, Em."

Emerson shrugged and glanced at her watch. "Time for me to go talk about Section Seven. I'm going to scare the living hell out of them today."

"Good. Get 'em ready for me," Charlie said, pushing her chair away from the table. She put her hand on her friend's arm. "Em. Think about this fieldwork stuff. Think long and hard."

Emerson placed her hand over Charlie's. "Don't worry, Dr. Charles. I promise I won't end up in your sick bay dead or something."

"Not funny, Em," Charlie said, her face dark with worry. "Not funny at all."

"Cates," Emerson said into her communicator. The waiter poured Chianti.

"Where are you?" Illya asked, sounding just a little loopy.

"Where are _you_?" she answered, sipping the wine.

"I'm on my way to New York," he said. "Now, answer my question."

"What flight?"

Silence. "UNCLE jet," came the slow reply.

Charlie leaned across the table. "I hear monitors, Em. Something's happened."

"You're on an UNCLE Med Evac," Emerson said, her voice surprisingly calm. "What happened?"

"I am fine."

Emerson rolled her eyes and handed the communicator to Charlie. "Who's with you, Illya?"

"Hel…loooo, Dr. Charles," he said, his voice very mellow. "I am being tended to by Dr. Matthew Winston."

"Put him on."

"Say _please_ …"

"Illya!"

"Dr. Charles, this Dr. Winston. How may I assist you?"

"I'd appreciate a report. How many patients?"

"That was sneaky," Emerson whispered. "Don't have to directly ask about Napasha."

"Just one, Dr. Charles. Mr. Solo, other than a few abrasions, contusions, cracked ribs, and a minor concussion, is quite well."

"Well that's a relief," sarcasm thick in her voice. "And Mr. Kuryakin?"

"Gunshot wound to the right calf. Nicked an artery, but nothing permanent. He's received a unit of blood, minor surgery to remove the bullet, and he's resting comfortably."

"Thank you, Dr. Winston. Please put Mr. Kuryakin back on," Charlie said, returning the communicator to Emerson.

"Kuryakin, here," his voice was fuzzy.

"Get some rest, Nikala," Emerson said, surprised at the huskiness of her voice. "I'll see you tomorrow. Put Napoleon on, please."

"Love you, Em," Illya whispered. "Forever."

"Forever, Nikala. Napoleon?"

"Hi, Em," came Napoleon's strong voice said.

"How's he doing?"

"Fine, really. Just fine. Charlie there?"

"Not that she wants to talk to you, you understand," Emerson said, laughing as Charlie grabbed for the communicator.

"Napasha! Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, Charlie, honest. Just got bounced around by some unhappy locals. I'll see you tomorrow," he said, smiling at the communicator. "And, be nice to the recruits. IK and I are due for a week of lectures soon. We don't want to clean up after the two of you!"

"See you tomorrow. I love you … and, mind my staff!" The connection dissolved into static.

Charlie and Emerson locked eyes.

"I can have the UNCLE jet here in an hour," Emerson said, grinning.

"What are we waiting for?" Charlie asked, dropping a handful of bills on the table.

The homecoming was fun, especially after Emerson had placated Alexander Waverly's considerable temper over ordering the plane by offering to pay the cost. Charlie had examined Illya's wound and cleared him with two weeks downtime, leaving Napoleon to catch-up on paperwork.

The weeks that followed were, for UNCLE, slow. That downturn in the pace of the spy life left both Napoleon and Illya chafing at the boredom. Both agents ran in-service training for the staff. Time in the gym and on the firing range kept them busy for a while. Even spending time with their wives and with Anushka and Tasha did little to lift their spirits.

"I've got it, Charlie," Emerson said to Charlie over lunch. "Let's take the boys to meet Nathalie!"

Dr. Nathalie Schumann, a slight woman with steel gray hair and a no-nonsense attitude, welcomed Napoleon and Illya and immediately sent them to her private office. "I'll be with you shortly, gentlemen. Make yourselves comfortable."

Napoleon poured himself a cup of coffee while Illya took a close look at the life-sized plastic models of fetuses at various stages of development. He selected the 'seventh month' fetus.

"Emerson seems to be larger than this would indicate," he said, holding the model in front of Napoleon.

"Um. Maybe you're having an extra-large baby, Illya," he commented, trying not to think about how that baby would work its way through that very small opening.

"Mr. Kuryakin," Dr. Schumann said, smiling at the blond. "I'm pleased to see that you're interested in the development of your baby."

"He's a scientist," Napoleon offered. "Sometimes I call him Dr. Kuryakin."

"I had no idea, Dr. Kuryakin," Nathalie said, taking the model.

"Quantum mechanics," Illya said, pouring his own cup of coffee. "Thank you for meeting us," Illya said, glancing at Napoleon. "Although this visit was not on our schedule."

Dr. Schumann seated herself behind the Queen Anne writing desk and chuckled. "It never is, dear boy. Wives always manage to cajole husbands into a visit to the OB-GYN somewhere near the beginning of the third trimester." She consulted two files on her desk. "If my math is correct, and trust me, it is … that would be now."

"My partner and I work very odd hours," Napoleon offered. "We weren't able to make an appointment sooner."

The older woman folded her hands across her trim abdomen. "I've know Alexander and Madeline Waverly nearly 40 years, Mr. Solo. Before I was in the baby business I was in the OSS business, if you get my drift."

Napoleon made no attempt to hide his surprise. Illya choked on his coffee.

"My apologies, madam," Illya said, wiping tears from his eyes. "We … I … had no idea that you were acquainted with Mr. and Mrs. Waverly."

She laughed. "Really, gentlemen! You don't think that these two young women would be seen by just any OB-GYN in New York, do you? In truth, nearly all of my practice is UNCLE employees … staff, agents, and families. Alex trusts me to take good care of his people. And, I do."

"It's good to know that we don't have to 'play games' with you, Dr. Schumann," Napoleon said, bestowing his most winning smile.

Dr. Schumann stood up and leaned across her desk. "Then don't, Mr. Solo."

Napoleon's smile faded. He felt for all the world like a schoolboy about to get his knuckles rapped with a ruler.

"Sister Mary Sadist," Illya whispered.

"This is what I call my 'daddy' talk, gentlemen," Nathalie said, perching on the front of her desk. Napoleon noted her shapely legs and trim, fit body. She was, in his opinion, a fine looking woman.

"Have either of you been fathers before?" she asked, her dark brown eyes moving from face to face. Illya blanched.

Dr. Schumann instantly understood. "My apologies, Mr. Kuryakin. I had no intention to dredge up difficult memories, but it is important for me to know these things."

"Not at all, Dr. Schumann," Illya said, color returning to his face. "Many years ago, when I was still in the Soviet, my wife gave birth to a son. She died in childbirth. My son died shortly thereafter."

"My sympathy, Mr. Kuryakin," Dr. Schumann said, her cool hand resting on his. "I will make certain that history will not repeat itself." She glanced at Napoleon. "I take it, Mr. Solo, that this is your first venture into paternity."

Napoleon blushed, something Illya was grateful to witness. "As far as he knows, Dr. Schumann," the blond said, a sardonic grin directed at his partner.

"Yes, Dr. Schumann," Napoleon said, shooting a glare at his partner, "this is my first child."

"Good, then. You've both got a few things to learn, so I suggest that we begin immediately." Dr. Schumann pushed away from her desk and led the way down the narrow hallway. "I am known as an innovator, gentlemen. You are invited to be in the delivery room with your wife when she delivers. You'll note that I do not require you to be there." She smiled at the worried looks. "Some men find childbirth very difficult."

"I assure you, Dr. Schumann, that Illya and I have seen just about everything," Napoleon said, his smugness shining through.

"I'm sure that you think you have," Nathalie said, smiling at him. "However, I doubt that you have had the experience of watching any woman, much less your wife, endure the pain of childbirth.

"I will ask you to view a film with your wives of an uncomplicated childbirth to give you an idea of what to expect and I would like you to come to their last visits … they will increase the closer we come to their due dates."

Napoleon opened his mouth, but Illya interrupted. "We will make every effort, Dr. Schumann."

"Good. Now, I've got something new, something that I believe you'll both find as fascinating as I do."

"Fascinating," Illya repeated, a step behind Napoleon. "So far, all of this has been fascinating … in a frightening sort of way."

The three entered a white tiled room that reminded the agents of some of the 'guest quarters' they had occupied over the years. "Cozy," Napoleon murmured. "And cold."

Charlie lay on her back, her head at about a 30-degree angle, her belly exposed. "Perhaps I should excuse myself," Illya said, backing toward the door.

"No, Illya! Stay," Charlie said, reaching for Napoleon's hand. "Em's next anyway."

"Next?" Napoleon asked, looking at the cart full of electronics that was pulled close to the exam table.

"Sure. Em and I have been in on something really incredible. Nathalie and the two of us discussed it and decided that we would share it with you." Charlie shivered as a thick gel substance spread across her belly and the machine hummed to life. "Watch this, Napasha! You won't believe it!"

Emerson slipped into the room and wrapped her arm around Illya's waist. "This is cool, Nikala. You'll love it!"

Illya looked concerned as Dr. Schumann pressed an object that looked like a microphone against Charlie's belly and began to move it around. A small, circular screen flashed with images in varying shades of gray. At first, the movement seemed aimless, but then he noted a pattern. As the object moved across Charlie's abdomen the doctor turned dials, flipped switches, and the images on the screen changed as well. Illya stepped closer.

"Ah, here we go," Dr. Schumann said, smiling at the screen. She glanced at Napoleon's face reading his confusion. "I'll interpret, Mr. Solo. This device is …"

"Sonar," Illya interjected, now standing next to his partner, his eyes glued to the screen.

"In a manner of speaking, Mr. Kuryakin," Dr. Schumann said, her smile growing wider. "In the medical field we call it sonagraphy. It's been used in a variety of ways, measuring lesions … breast cancer, colon cancer … and some neurological uses." She paused, turned two dials, and pressed against the lower right quadrant of Charlie's belly. "There! That's what we're looking for."

"What am I looking at?" Napoleon asked, squinting at the black and gray image on the small screen.

"That's your baby, Mr. Solo," Dr. Schumann said. "Developing quite nicely. I would guess it's five pounds or so at the moment. At birth I would imagine it'll weigh in at about seven-five or eight."

Napoleon's mouth hung open. "My baby?"

"It sure as hell doesn't belong to anybody else!" Charlie snapped.

Alexander Waverly frowned. "Miss Blackstone, please have Dimitri Kuryakin report to my office. Immediately."

Moments later the tall, dark-haired young man appeared silently in Waverly's office.

"You asked for me, sir?"

"Yes, Mr. … uh … Kuryakin. Please, sit down."

Dimitri sat and looked at his hands, worrying his fingers. His dark brown hair fell across his forehead, shadowing blue eyes not unlike his brother's.

Waverly opened a file, glanced at the top sheet, and then dropped it. Dimitri flinched.

"Be so good, Mr. Kuryakin, as to explain this, please."

"Sir?"

Waverly stopped and regrouped. "My apologies, Dimitri. I forget that English is not your first language." He passed the file to the young man. "You sent this letter to me. I want to know why."

Dimitri's dark blue eyes climbed slowly from the file to the face of the man he both feared and revered. "I am requesting transfer, sir."

"I can see that," Waverly said, unable to keep the sharp tone from his voice. "Why would you wish to return to the Soviet bloc? It makes no sense!"

"I understand, sir," Dimitri said, brushing his hair back from his face. "It is this, you see. In the Soviet, I was able to help people. Not all people, but some. People who wanted very much freedom."

Alexander Waverly smiled as he looked out at the UN building. "Go on."

"But here … forgive me, please, sir … I do work in labs. Important, yes? But, not helping people like in Russia." The thin young man paused, watching his mentor. "I want, very much, to help people. Russian people. Do you understand?"

Waverly sighed. "Da, Dimitri. I understand."

Emerson took her place on the exam table with Illya holding her hand. "Shall we see what your baby looks like, Mr. Kuryakin?" Dr. Schumann asked, squeezing the cool gel on Emerson's belly.

"I'll bet he's scowling," Napoleon said, carefully tucking the terry cloth robe around Charlie and tying the belt. He finished with a kiss.

Within a few minutes Illya was gazing at what Dr. Schumann insisted was the face of his unborn child. It was scowling. Illya smiled. Napoleon laughed.

Dr. Schumann continued to move the sonar device around Emerson's belly. A frown crossed her face and she immediately cleared it, but not before Illya noticed.

"What?" he asked, his blue eyes boring into her face. "What is wrong?"

"Nothing, Mr. Kuryakin," she said, glancing at the intense young man. "Just a curiosity." She caught Napoleon's eye. "Perhaps you would be so kind as to take Mr. Kuryakin out for coffee. I'll talk with you shortly."

Illya stood like a statue. "I will not leave, Dr. Schumann. Do not attempt to force the issue."

Napoleon took Charlie's elbow and steered her toward the door. "Call if you need help, tovarisch," he said, as the door closed behind him.

Dr. Schumann frowned. "If you insist on being obstinate, Mr. Kuryakin, then I will insist that you follow my directions. Do you understand?"

Illya looked at Emerson, surprised to find tears shimmering in her eyes. "Nikala, cooperate will you? I'm fine. The baby is fine."

He turned his gaze to Dr. Schumann and his shoulders sagged. "I will do whatever you ask. Please, do not ask me to leave her."

Dr. Schumann smiled and rested her hand on his arm. "Em speaks the truth, Mr. Kuryakin. She is fine as is the baby." She turned her attention to the screen and made adjustments. "It's just that … "

"What?" Illya asked, making no attempt to hide the terror in his voice.

"See that?" the doctor asked, pointing the fuzzy gray image.

"Yes. What is wrong?"

"Nothing is wrong," she said, making more adjustments. "There!

Illya blanched dead white. Dr. Schumann grabbed a chair and pushed him down. "Head between your legs, Mr. Kuryakin, and breathe!"

A moment later he raised his blue eyes and took in Emerson's smiling face.

"Congratulations, Mr. Kuryakin," Dr. Schumann said, removing the cool cloth from the back of his neck. "Twins!"

University of Glasgow publication **'Avenue'** No. 19: January 1996 entitled Medical Ultrasound ---- A Glasgow Development which Swept the World ', by Dr. James Willocks MD, "In **1959** Ian Donald noted that clear echoes could be obtained from the fetal head and began to apply this information. I (Dr. Willocks) became involved shortly afterwards, and indeed was given the project to play with on my own. At the Royal Maternity Hospital, Rottenrow, there was no separate room to examine the patients and not even a cupboard in which to keep the apparatus, so my colleague, the physicist Tom Duggan, and I pushed it about on a trolley and approached patients in the wards for permission to examine them at the bedside. We applied the method of fetal head measurement to assess the size and growth of the foetus. When the Queen Mother's Hospital opened in **1964** it became possible to refine the technique greatly. My colleague Dr. Stuart Campbell (now Professor at King's College Hospital, London) did this and fetal cephalometry became the standard method for the study of fetal growth for many years." A Short History of the development of Ultrasound in Obstetrics and Gynecology _Dr. Joseph Woo _


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